


dominion

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Bladder Control, Cuddling & Snuggling, Desperation Play, Established Relationship, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mentions of Rope Bondage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Watersports, collaring, d/s dynamics, handjobs, mentions of past trauma, mentions of spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 10:12:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7098517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm really tired of trying to control things," John says.</p>
<p>Harold's hand is warm against the nape of John's neck, his thumb stroking in idle circles. "You don't have to," Harold says, and it touches something inside of John like the clear sound of a bell. "Do you want your collar?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	dominion

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to dana & sky for squee & encouragement. 
> 
> BEFORE YOU READ: this story contains descriptions of watersports, meaning sexual play involving urine. the main focus of this fic is on desperation play / bladder control, but to put it into clear terms, _there is pee(ing) in this story in a sexual context_.   
>  if reading about this kind of kink is not your speed, you might want to give this fic a pass.

_**do|mi|ni|on**_ , noun.

1\. the power or right of governing and controlling.

2\. a territory, usually of considerable size, in which a single rulership holds sway.

3\. rule; control; domination.

 

Harold comes in while John undresses in front of the bathroom mirror. He winces when he sees the torn sleeve of John's jacket: the fabric caught on a fence and ripped all the way down to his elbow.

"Are you alright?" Harold's voice is soft. He is dressed in khaki slacks and a navy button-down, leaning against the door frame.

John shrugs. "It's been a long day," he says, a good non-answer. Sure, he got their number to safety, a lovely woman with intelligent, blue eyes, but that doesn't change the fact that her son died in a gang related drive-by shooting two months ago. John wonders why _his_ number didn't come up – probably because the event was too random, unpredictable. "I was roughly two months too late."

Harold presses his lips together, the closest his expression comes to revealing frustration. "Even with all the knowledge we possess, we can't always prevent people from getting hurt."

"You think I don't know that?" John asks. He pulls his shirt over his head and undoes his belt, fumbling with the clasp, a tremor in his hands. "I should have been able to do something. What does it matter if we have the numbers if we're not there in time?"

John sits down on the edge of the bathtub and hides his face in his hands. She had a photograph of her son folded into her leather wallet, the edges all soft and worn. “He would have been sixteen next month,” she said, smoothing her thumb over the image of a boy grinning into the camera with eyes the exact color of her own. John nodded and put a comforting hand on her shoulder and felt like putting his fist through a concrete wall.

He can hear Harold's footsteps on the bathroom mat when he comes closer. "Some things are beyond your control, John," Harold says.

John looks up at him. He feels like he's held together by the seams of his suit and sheer effort of will. Harold is standing close enough that John can rest his cheek against Harold's thigh. He closes his eyes. "I'm really tired of trying to control things," John says.

Harold's hand is warm against the nape of John's neck, his thumb stroking in idle circles. "You don't have to," Harold says, and it touches something inside of John like the clear sound of a bell. "Do you want your collar?"

John swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. He nods. On nights like this, he wishes Harold would take one look at him and know his mind exactly: that he knew, instinctively, when John wants to be tied up with soft rope or feel the smack of a blunt wooden paddle against his ass. If John could flick a switch and let Harold read his mind, broadcast all his thoughts out loud, he would.

There's nothing that he doesn't want Harold to know about him anyway, not when Harold already knows the parts of him that John has hidden best: digging graves in the desert with the taste of sand in his mouth, the metal click of a gun when you release the safety, the acid sting of bleach in his nostrils. He told Harold about every nightmare image that was really just a memory, and Harold listened and stroked John's hair and didn't say a word even when John was sobbing in Harold's lap, crying so hard that it gave him a headache for hours after. Letting Harold into John's brain would save them a lot of time, really, and eliminate the neccessity of finding _words._

Harold produces a slim leather band from his pocket, and John tips his head back and lets Harold fasten the collar around his throat. The leather is warm and smooth against his skin, and John feels his heart rate slow down, like he's done running, like he's home.

"What would you like tonight?" Harold asks. He runs his fingers over John's jaw, this throat, and John moves into the touch, seeking contact.

What John wants is for _Harold_ to decide, but he already knows that Harold won't have any of it: he would just wait patiently until John has found words to voice his desires, tell him exactly what it is that he needs. (John chokes on the last part almost every time, but something in his voice or posture must communicate it anyway: _I want to kneel. I want to serve. I want to forget everything. I want to feel so spent that all I can do is sleep._ )

John tries to settle on something: he would love to kneel, but the floor is cold tile and Harold has opinions about John not taking good care of his body. They could move to the bedroom, maybe, and John could suck Harold off, or lie down and let Harold work on him with one of his toys until John is desperate enough to beg. The word _desperate_ brings something else to mind: now that John has a moment to focus on himself, his own body, he realizes that his bladder feels full. He swallows again.

"Yes?" Harold asks, sensing the shift in John's mood. It's an invitation to speak, but he keeps petting John's head like he could stay like this all night, like John has all the time in the world to decide.

"There's something we talked about once," John says. He can feel the heat rising to his cheeks. His heart is beating faster again. "I didn't get a chance to relieve myself before I came home." Even the stilted phrasing is making him blush.

"Ah," Harold says. It's difficult to read his reaction: he doesn't sound particularly pleased or displeased. "Well, we're already in the right room to try that," he says, and now John can hear the smile in his voice.

John takes one of Harold's hands in his and brushes a kiss over his knuckles. Sometimes he loves Harold so much that it feels like his body is too small to contain the feeling, like it must be spilling out of every crack and hairline fracture.

"Whatever you need, John," Harold says. He hooks a finger under the collar and tugs, and John gets to his feet instantly. "Undress for me," Harold says. He takes a step back and rolls up his sleeves, watching.

John opens the button on his pants and pulls them down along with his underwear, then he takes off his socks. Harold is already barefoot, and the sight is _intimate:_ Harold rarely shows vulnerability to people, avoids exposing himself wherever he can. The first time he undressed in front of John was breathtakingly erotic, every layer of fabric removed, the buttons coming undone one by one. Beneath it all Harold was _human,_ all plump softness around his middle, hairy thighs and knobbly knees.

Here, in the safety of their shared home, Harold has the first few buttons of his shirt unbuttoned to expose the sparse chest hair peeking out. John knows the landscape of his body as well as his own: the swell of Harold's tummy, every liver spot on his hands and arms, the criss-cross of surgical scars on his neck, pale and white.

John straightens his shoulders and lets Harold look at him. He feels the urge to pee, but it's not too bad yet. His cock is soft, and now that he's paying attention, his elbow hurts a little where he hit it against a wall during the fight. Mostly John feels restless, tingly with anticipation.

"Come here," Harold says.

John walks over. Harold slides a hand up his injured arm. "It's just a bruise," John says. His voice feels rough in his throat.

Harold's eyes look almost gray in the bright light of the bathroom. "Does it hurt?"

_It's nothing,_ John is about to say, but then thinks better of it. The collar is a reminder that this, too, belongs to Harold: all the intimate details of John's life, all the joy and pain. "A bit," John admits.

"Then it's not ' _just_ ' anything," Harold says, a hint of disapproval in his voice.

John bows his head. Harold's hands move over his sides, down to his belly. He places his palm below John's navel, presses down over his bladder, and John gasps.

"How badly do you have to go?" Harold asks.

John swallows. His bladder is starting to hurt a little, and he is feeling more restless by the minute. "Soon," John says. His neck is burning and the warmth is spreading all the way to his throat. To share this with Harold, to have him _in control–_

Harold hums and leans in closer. "Well, you can't go unless I tell you that you're allowed to, do you understand?"

John shivers. "Yes," he breathes.

"Come on," Harold says, and steps into the shower.

For a moment, John wonders if Harold will turn on the spray: he doesn't really appreciate the idea of hearing water running at the moment, but Harold just makes John lean against the cool tile and kisses him. Harold braces himself against the shower wall while John nips at his bottom lip, trying to distract himself from the need building in his groin.

He feels rather urgent about needing to pee by now: his bladder _hurts_ and he's clenching down on his pelvic muscles trying to keep it in. He suddenly realizes that Harold hasn't specified that he will _let_ John pee at some point, neither if he will be allowed to use a toilet. John has a sudden mental image of losing it and peeing himself, hot liquid running down over his naked legs. He shudders in revulsion.

Harold places a hand over John's cock and asks: “How are you feeling, John?”

For a confused moment, John is torn between the need to urinate and the knee jerk response of arousal to Harold cupping John's cock in his hand. “I really need to go,” John manages, a low whine creeping into his voice despite himself. It should be humiliating, the way he presses his thighs together, squirms against the cool tile, but to John's surprise, he feels _aroused_ , turned on so much that he wants to slide down to his knees and mouth at Harold's cock through his pants, turn around and let Harold fuck him against the wall.

Harold strokes John's cock with a light touch, and John groans and feels himself getting hard. It's going to make urinating even more difficult when he is finally allowed to, but it also feels so good – the low thrum of discomfort is giving a sharp edge to the pleasure he feels, and John lets his head fall back against the tile while Harold touches him.

“You let me have control over you even in this,” Harold says. It's a statement, but he sounds _amazed_ , as if John has offered him more than just the tattered remains of his own heart.

Every touch is sending a hot spark of pleasure through him, but the pressure on his bladder is getting worse by the minute. John can deal with the pain of his muscles cramping, but there is a special kind of desperation to needing relief and holding back. Every second seems to stretch out for a small eternity, and then Harold's other hand is coming to rest over John's bladder and massage it, his right hand still stroking John's cock.

John whimpers. His legs are shaking with the effort to hold it in, and his whole perception is narrowed down to that one thing, _he needs, he needs, he needs._ Still, the thought of wetting himself in front of Harold, of disobeying his command, is making John clench down even harder.

“You could tell me that it's too much anytime,” Harold says, leaning in to nip at John's collar bone. “But you're so determined to hold out, aren't you?”

John makes a weak noise and pushes into Harold's hand. Every touch feels amazing, like the pain of holding back is turning up every other sensation into high definition. The pressure against his bladder feels like too much, like John might lose it any second, but he still rocks forward into Harold's hands, safe in the knowledge that Harold knows exactly how much John can take.

“ _Please,_ ” John says, not sure if he wants Harold to allow him to pee or make him come. John is incredibly hard, shamefully turned on by the idea of letting Harold decide about every aspect of his life: what he wears, what he eats, when he sleeps, when he gets fucked, and even this, even something as _private_ as this. John wants to surrender all control, all responsibility, and just follow that gentle voice in his ear, the touch of Harold's hands on him.

“You always do so well, even when it's difficult,” Harold says. He kisses John's chest, the line of his pectoral muscles, and then flicks his tongue against John's right nipple.

John moans and ruts into Harold's grip. It feels incredible, he's so _full,_ like his bladder is pushing against something delicate inside of him, sparking pleasure with every movement of his hips.

Harold removes his hand from John's belly and reaches down to cup his balls instead, and John makes a helpless, thin noise. He thrusts into the tight grip of Harold's hand and then suddenly feels pleasure coil hot and overwhelming at the base of his spine: he's coming, spilling over Harold's hand. It's good enough that John's knees go weak with it and his eyelids flutter.

Harold kisses John's throat. “There you go, such a good boy,” he says against John's skin, and John shudders violently.

With the release of his orgasm comes a sudden, overwhelming urge to piss. John's muscles are cramping and his bladder feels like it's about to burst. His cock softens, and just the idea of getting release is making John dizzy. Harold still cradles John's half-hard cock in his hand, absently stroking the silky skin.

“It's alright, John,” Harold says. “You can let go now.”

John groans, and his cock twitches in Harold's hand. His pelvis is thrumming with sweet pain, and his body is straining to let go. “ _Harold_ ,” John says, desperately.

Harold steps aside a little, his hand still holding John's cock, his breath warm against the side of John's throat. “I've got you, John, it's all good, just let go,” Harold says, his hand pressing down over John's lower abdomen, gently encouraging him.

A wail works its way out of John's throat. He makes an effort to relax his muscles, but it takes him a moment until he feels the stream of urine run out of his cock. Harold is still holding him, tenderly kissing John's shoulder while John lets the liquid run out of his bladder. The relief that washes over him feels even better than the orgasm did. John feels hot piss pool around his feet and has a moment of sharp anxiety that constricts his chest – god, Harold must be _disgusted_ by him, how could he not be – but Harold just stands there, aiming the stream to the side while John relieves himself, seemingly unbothered by the smell or feeling. Once John is done, Harold reaches for the shower head and cleans out the shower. He tests the temperature against his wrist and lets the water run over John's belly and thighs.

John still feels a faint ache in his groin, but mostly he just feels relief. He lets Harold soap him up and wash him clean and then wrap John into a towel. John is still wearing his collar, and he sways a little on his feet when he exits the shower, hit by a sudden, bone-deep exhaustion.

“Tell me how you feel,” Harold says, toweling John dry, his hands all over John's body.

“I'm so,” John says. He wants to cry, and kiss Harold, and curl up with him and never move again. “I'm good,” he finally manages. “I feel. Better. Grounded.”

Harold nods. “You didn't eat, before. Do you want–“

“Bed,” John says, kissing Harold's temple. “Just want you to take me to bed.”

The corner of Harold's mouth curls into a smile. He takes John's toothbrush from where it sits in a glass on the sink, squirts toothpaste on it and hands it to John. John stands in front of the sink and brushes his teeth, still a little high from the endorhpin rush.

Harold leaves for a moment, and John can hear him puttering around the apartment. When he comes back, he has changed into his pajamas. John spits into the sink and rinses his mouth and then presses a toothpaste-flavored kiss against Harold's lips. Harold smiles and hands John a clean pair of boxer briefs and a soft, fresh t-shirt to sleep in. John gladly puts them on and follows Harold into the bedroom.

As soon as Harold climbs into the bed, John scoots over to throw a possessive leg around him and cuddle close. He nuzzles Harold's jaw and presses his nose against the hollow of Harold's throat, inhaling the scent of his skin.

Harold holds him and runs soothing hands over John's back. “Your self-control is admirable,” he says.

John hides his face against Harold's neck and makes a noncommittal noise.

“You're always so good for me, so determined to do your best.” Harold slips his hand beneath John's t-shirt to caress naked skin, and John makes a pleased noise.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Harold asks. He runs a thumb over the skin of John's throat just above the collar.

John shudders and rubs his spent cock against Harold's leg. “Hmh,” he says, kissing Harold's breast bone. “Yes.”

“Is there something else you need?”

John considers that. He is about two minutes from falling asleep and his body feels a little too spent for another round – though he is pretty sure he might be able to manage an erection in the wet heat of Harold's mouth. John shivers and rubs himself against Harold's leg some more. He doesn't want to be _greedy,_ so John shakes his head. “Tired,” he says, which is true.

Harold lets his fingers run all the way down John's spine. “Maybe you'd like my mouth later, after you got some rest,” he says. “In the morning, for example.”

John sighs, a relieved, blissful sigh. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, snuggling closer. Then his hazy brain belatedly realizes that Harold didn't get off, and John slides a hand between them to caress Harold's belly and move lower.

John is half asleep already, and Harold catches his hand and moves it up to his mouth to kiss it, his breath warm against John's skin. “It's alright, John, I'm good. Rest now, you must be terribly tired.”

John buries his face against Harold's throat and hikes up the smooth fabric of Harold's pajama to feel his skin where they're pressed up against each other, the hair on his belly, the _warmth_ of him. “You can have everything,” John mutters, drowsily. “Every part of me, if you want.”

Harold hums and kisses the top of John's head. “I love you too, John,” he says, and John closes his eyes and lets himself drift off to sleep.

– fin


End file.
